Day is Coming
by aerocats
Summary: Squall knew Apocrypha was going to be trouble. She just never expected to bring the trouble back home.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: **[Please not that this fic has been crossposted from Ao3.]**

Alright so I'm gonna begin by saying that it's been a while since I've written a fanfiction. Like... a Long While. Also, this is my first Skyrim Fanfiction, so I really don't have any idea What The Fuck I'm Doing.

I wrote this assuming that anyone reading it has already played the Dragonborn DLC, so I don't go that in-depth with explaining all of the logistics of the quest Squall is on. If you haven't played the DLC yet, spoilers... I guess.

I barely edited this (bc I'm a dumbass) so I hope there aren't any glaring grammatical issues. If there are, please feel free to sneak into my house and teach me How To English before it's too late. I'm a visual learner, so please make a PowerPoint or two.

Also, the title is based on the song "Day is Coming" by Katie Kim, which I totally didn't listen to on repeat while writing this. (But actually, I was seriously inspired by rotomtoms' Dragonborn playlist to write this fic, and I strongly encourage anyone who enjoys anything to check it out right...

user/rotomtoms/playlist/7uRxEUVdED1GMetYreHWyh?si=s4-SrhKGSnGymuMKV-noNw

... here.)

Alright that's it! Clout is Much Appreciated.

* * *

Squall was beginning to tire of Apocrypha.

Not physically- no matter how hard she fought or how long the hours seemingly passed, her senses remained sharp, her instincts quick to react to even the softest rustle of paper or lapping of deep black waters. She had no idea if her unfaltering energy was a side effect of Hermaeus Mora's plane, or if she was simply chock-full of adrenaline: some combination of the two seemed to be the most reasonable explanation.

However, despite the endurance of her limbs, her mind was foggy, each thought seeming to disappear before she could comprehend its meaning. The place was a maze of bookshelves and inky pools of sludge she dared not touch: no matter what turns she made, it felt like Squall was walking in circles. She promised herself to never complain of the endless woods of Skyrim she often found herself lost in ever again. At least there, she could find her way home using the stars above as her guide. Here, there was nothing: only the faint chuckling of the Daedric prince of knowledge, mocking her as she watched.

How long had it been since she opened _Waking Dreams, _transporting herself to this damned realm? The tears that stung the corners of her eyes had long dried, but Frea's panicked voice still reverberated in the back of her mind, as she crouched helplessly over the body of her father. _Kill Miraak. Do not fail. _ Squall could say little to comfort the woman then. She froze as Frea sobbed into Storn's corpse, his body riddled with bloody holes, reminders of the Daedra's cruelty. Dealing with the dead, she had found, was easy. Dealing with the survivors was less so.

The tentacles that had stabbed Storn now lashed out at her in this dreaded pain of existence, sharp pain erupting from where they slapped her legs. One even wrapped tightly around her tail, trying to drag her into the watery depths from where it came. Squall screamed, fire emitting from her hands as she scorched the slimy assailant. Luckily, it relented and Squall stayed far away from the waters of Apocrypha for the rest of her journey.

A deep pang of worry settled inside her chest, one that took her muddled mind to its advantage. _You are not right for this job. _Squall may be the Dragonborn, yes, but hardly anything else gave her the qualifications to embark on such a perilous task. She was a foreigner, both to Solstheim and Skyrim, and obviously so. Her catlike appearance kept her from truly assimilating: the only other Khajiit she had seen so far were mostly from caravans, which were barred from entering the city. Many a night had been wasted as she tried to convince city guards to let her in, that she was just an adventurer, not out to deal Skooma or steal their riches. Of course, "just an adventurer" was a lie, but she tried to keep her Dragonborn status only to herself. She didn't need any more attention in her life.

Still, news of her dragon soul leaked out to the public, especially after the defeat of Alduin. She was a defender of Skyrim, perhaps all of Tamriel, whether she liked it (or saw herself fit for it) or not. And so, she was fated to serve its people.

Even her remarkable slaying of the World-Eater could not have been done without help from ancient Nord heroes. Here, she was alone, with little guidance besides a shout to bend will and one final goal: to defeat Miraak, plague upon Solstheim.

Squall was _terrified. _

Hermaeus Mora now sought her out as the next champion, whether she liked it or not. She had to make the deal, not even knowing of the Daedra's intentions. What did he want from her? It felt like stumbling blindly into a bear trap. Was her fate to rot in Apocrypha, like Miraak? Would she be corrupted like him, and come to conquer Solstheim? Just how much of herself would she lose in her quest to defeat the First Dragonborn?

Apocrypha provided no answers. Only the occasional Seeker greeted her, and was then abruptly silenced with a swing of Squall's warhammer. At least they were easy to take down: still, Squall had no time for games. Yet, she felt like she was becoming the pawn in one.

Finally, a pillar emitting a strange green light greeted Squall at the end of a long, twisted hallway. The worst part of Apocrypha was the way it moved: how pathways twitched and spun and unraveled in the tepid air. Apocrypha was warm, but not like the pleasant sands of Elsweyr. The humidity was oppressive, leaving Squall's palms clammy and the tunic under her armor damp with sweat.

The spacious room was mostly open air, except for the aforementioned center pillar, which was surrounded by four pedestals and of horde of Seekers. Cursing, Squall let out a Shout, throat buzzing from the draconic words that leapt from her maw and reverberated against the many piles of books around her: _Krii Lun Aus- _Kill, Leech, Suffer. The Seekers staggered backwards in pain, weakened by the Shout. Squall drew her glass warhammer: an unorthodox weapon for her race, as many Khajiits resorted to their stealthiness and the dagger. She charged at the three nightmarish creatures, trying not to flinch at the spells each one hurled at her, which caused gashes to grow on her skin. She swung at the first one in vain. The Seeker had evaded her attack, transforming into a cluster of thick black mist. Trying to ignore her dwindling strength, Squall swung again, the face of her hammer now burying itself into the grotesque middle of the Seeker to her left, causing the creature to fold upon itself, its flesh disintegrating. The center Seeker was still invulnerable, so Squall directed her attention to the beast on her right. Another strong blow to its middle caused it to crumble. While she recovered from the swing, the center Seeker forced the warhammer out of her hands. Squall's eyes widened as the creature descended upon her. Her eyebrows furrowed. _Very well, _she thought, as her hands lit up in a deadly blaze.

The Seekers defeated, Squall could finally turn her attention to the rest of the room. The four pedestals were without books, the tome on the center was closed. Squall drew a deep breath and fumbled for her knapsack. She had collected any books that seemed exclusive to Apocrypta, curiosity getting to her. She had meant to read them later in order to learn more about the realm of the Daedric prince she was now champion of, but, with further inspection, it appeared that they had an entirely different use.

The pedestal with the eye was for Prying Orbs, the one with the tentacles, Boneless Limbs. And so forth. It felt like Hermaeus Mora was mocking her.

* * *

The Bend Will Shout had come in handy, much to Squall's relief. (She would later have to tell Frea that her father's death was not in vain.) After using it on Miraak's servant, the dragon Sahrotaar, he praised her mastery of the thu'um and agreed to take you to Miraak. "_But I must warn you," _Sahrotaar had said, serpentine tongue flitting in and out of his fangs. "_Miraak is strong, and he knows you are here." _

Squall had only ridden a dragon one other time, during her trip to Sovngarde's portal upon the back of Odahviing. She remembered bracing the harsh winds of Skyrim as she gripped onto the mighty dragon's great horns with the unbridled joy of feeling free of gravity for the first time, despite the severe purpose of that journey. Her ride was Sahrotaar was much more tense. There were no winds in Apocrypta: the same murky air that stifled her on the ground hung in the air. Sahrotaar flew unsteadily: as if the dragon was debating whether or not to plunge into the waters of Apocrypta, ending this entire ordeal. Squall could hear him worryingly murmur under his breath as he drew closer to Miraak's presence. Her own demeanor did little to quell his anxieties, as her ears fell flat upon her head and her fur bristled under her heavy ebony armor.

Squall lost the element of surprise. As she approached a horrifying plateau embellished with dark arches and spikes (all reminiscent of Hermaeus Mora's tentacles) a deep voice called out. "_Sahrotaar, are you so easily swayed?" _The dragon paused, hovering in mid-air. _Land, _Squall commanded. Despite his wishes to do otherwise, he obeyed.

Miraak was flanked by three more dragons, each gruesome in his own nature, as they hovered above their master, desperate for blood. Squall could hear the beginnings of a shout form in one of the beasts' throats, and drew her weapon appropriately. She grew still as Miraak dismissively waved the dragon aside.

"No. Not yet," the man's face was unreadable under his mask, his voice a powerful echo that shook Squall to her core. "We should greet our guest first."

Squall took a step back as Miraak began walking towards her. "And the First Dragonborn meets the Last Dragonborn at the summit of Apocrypha. No doubt just as Hermaeus Mora intended."

Squall frowned. "You-"

Miraak ignored her. "He is a fickle master, you know. But now I will be free of him. My time in Apocrypha is over. You are here in your full power, and thus subject to my full power. You will die."

Squall sneered. "You know nothing of my fate."

Miraak tensed up then, voice hollow and as mournful as it was fierce. "Your fate has been written out for you the moment you stepped into this realm, _Dovahkiin. _Hermaeus Mora is laughing at us, you know."

No matter how much Squall wanted to deny this, she could hear it: a faint, otherworldly chuckle surrounded both of them.

And with that, the battle begun.

Squall would like to think she fought honorably. She did not. Neither of the Dragonborns did. She darted in and out of columns that littered their battleground, using her Thu'um to weaken the first. She dropped her warhammer, realizing that its weight only made her slower, and that it would be nearly impossible to get closer to Miraak without him landing a fatal blow upon her. Instead, she went on the sneaky defensive: hands alight and spewing flames at almost any chance Miraak lost sight of her.

"Hiding is beneath you, Dragonborn," Miraak sneered as one of his Shouts, _Yol Toor Shul, _sent her reeling behind yet another pillar. Squall did not care. She could begin to see his patience- and his strength- fading. Finally, while Squall crouched behind an archway, she saw Miraak still. _Finally! Here's your chance! _Squall thought as she drew a single ebony dagger, ready to deliver a final blow. Miraak, however, had other plans.

_"Kruziikrel, ziil los dii du!" _Squall watched in horror as the dragon closest to her fell, its body making a loud _thud _as it hit the ground. Miraak devoured its soul greedily.

Squall shivered. That felt _beneath him_.

The fight continued. Squall stuck to her guns: she continued attacking from the shadows. Miraak took another dragon soul, than another, until the two were alone (apart from the watchful gaze of Hermaeus Mora).

Squall knew what she had to do. "_Wuld Nah Kest!_" she screamed.

Miraak turned his head in confusion, but she was gone. Rushing directly past him, utilizing the great speed her Shout granted him, Squall grasped her warhammer and charged. Miraak raised his hands, a great bolt of lighting hitting her in the stomach, but she continued running, legs still in motion as she tried to bite back pain.

Weapon raised above her, she leapt, ready for her warhammer to deal a devastating final blow.

It did not.

"_Fus Ro Dah!" _Miraak's Shout blew Squall back, her body slamming against a pillar with a sickening squelch.

"You are strong," Miraak chided. "Stronger than I believed possible."

Squall closed her eyes, focusing on letting her restoration magic heal her.

Miraak drew closer. "This is the only way, Dragonborn," he drew his sword. "The only way I can be free."

Squall's eyes widened to see the First Dragonborn storm closer, oblivious to the rising mass of tentacles behind him.

"Wait," she croaked. "Miraak-"

He turned sharply in horror. The mass descended upon him at once, dragging him towards a pit of tar-black waters as he thrashed against Hermaeus Mora's grip.

Squall wobbled to her feet. "What are you doing?" she whispered.

"Did you think you could escape me, Miraak?" A booming voice said. "You can hide nothing from me here. No matter."

A grotesque tentacle rose from the inky liquid, stabbing the First Dragonborn straight through the stomach.

Squall screamed, visions of Storn and Frea dancing in her head.

Hermaeus Mora laughed as Miraak grew limp. "No matter," the Daedric prince murmured. "I have found a new Dragonborn to serve me."

Squall glanced down at the warhammer that lay between her and the horrors before her. Then, without warning, her legs rushed into action.

A guttural, inhuman screech came from the skies above as Squall bashed the warhammer into Hermaeus Mora's tentacle, reducing a portion of it to a slick and ragged pulp. Miraak fell with a _slosh _into the liquid beneath him.

"Traitor!" the Daedric prince screamed.

The rest happened in a daze. Squall remembered grasping Miraak underneath the shoulders and heaving him out of the acidic pool. The wound in him was deep- so deep, Squall could see entirely through him, a vision that churned her stomach.

"You dare defy me, Dragonborn?" Hermaeus Mora howled. "You will pay for this!"

Squall was barely listening. _Get the Black Book, _her mind screeched. _Get the Black Book, and get the Oblivion out of here! _

Fumbling through her knapsack, she pulled out the darkened tome and flipped it open, keeping one arm curled around Miraak.

A single green eye opened up on the pages.

"Perhaps," a hushed tone surrounded Squall. "I will let you go this time, deceitful champion. I admire your cleverness. But," Several tentacles began protruding from the corners of _Waking Dreams, "_do not see this as a victory, Dragonborn. See this as mercy… Or perhaps," Hermaeus Mora chuckled. "Perhaps a warning."

And with that, the lukewarm air of Apocrypta vanished.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: aaaaaaand we're back

TW for gore and makeshift surgery, along with vomiting/ being sick. Just a heads up if you're sensitive to that kind of thing.

On a lighter note, I just realized that I can probably classify this fic as a slowburn. Cuz these guys are... definitely not fucking anything soon

alright that's pretty much it, favs/follows & comments (even if they're like "ur work sucks lmao") are much appreciated.

* * *

Before she could even lament the wind being knocked out of her, the grounds of Solstheim appeared under Squall's boots. Curled over and wheezing, she could suddenly feel every inch of her body burning- the scrapes and bruises that only served as minor inconveniences to her in Apocrypha now stung in the cold. There was a sizable gash on her right leg, and the skin on her left arm was considerably burned: luckily, not enough to incapacitate her, but enough that she could still feel the heat rising from the wound. Squall looked down to see that a portion of her tawny fur had been completely singed off, leaving a patch of flaking, red skin exposed to the elements.

She muttered a string of curses under her breath. Everything _hurt._

She had not been transported to the Skaal village she first opened _Waking Dreams _in. Instead, she was now alone, sent to a desolate corner of the chilly Northern Solstheim wilds, with only the permafrost and mammoth conifers to keep her company.

Squall glanced at the unconscious man next to her. Well, she was almost alone.

Miraak lay profusely bleeding. The deep gash in his middle was now slick with crimson, the substance draining with frightening speed into the snow below.

Squall bit her lip as the heart in her battered body sped up and her thoughts began to race. What to do? They were at least a few miles from the Skaal village, and even if she could muster up the strength to drag the First Dragonborn all the way there, it was very likely that the people there would refuse to treat him. Squall grimaced. Not like she could blame them.

The thought came to her there: a cruel and ruthless one, but one nonetheless. She could leave now, and let Miraak rot in the wilds. Her duty had been done, her destiny fulfilled. She had no ties to this man, no reason to do anything except simply walk away and tell Frea that the job had been done. But still…

Squall shook her head, and knelt down next to Miraak, hands beginning to flush with the warmth of restoration magic.

Peeling back his dark robes, Squall pressed the pads of her fingers into the edges of the wound. She held her breath, waiting for the sinews of flesh to knit back together, feeling her energy drain with each ragged breath. Nothing happened.

She pulled away, and, frantic and desperate, unsheathed a single claw and pulled back a single layer of bloodied skin. Mixed in with the deep russet of his blood, thick black slime clung in chunks to the wound, no doubt sick reminders of the demon that dealt the blow. Squall let a steady flow of magic flow through her again, but to no avail. The slick, inky substance shielded any part of the wound from healing.

She drew a deep breath, her trembling hands fumbling for her belt. She drew her ebony dagger and lit a small flame in her palm, dipping the hilt of the blade into the fire. Squall glanced back at Miraak. At least there was the queasy fact that she couldn't really make his fragile state any less unwell.

Trying to stop her sword hand from shaking, Squall carefully nudged the first clot of the tentacle slime with the point, working the blade back and forth until the lump came free. She brought the fingers from her left hand back to the now uncovered hunk of flesh, magic now seeping into the tissue, patching up torn organs and stitching new tendons into the battered muscle. She didn't even check for a pulse, hoping that it was true that restoration magic didn't work on the dead, that this work was for naught. Squall had little training for healing: she had, however, enough knowledge on butchering animals to know the difference between a clean cut and one that would trespass upon a major artery. Squall felt bile well up in her mouth and forced herself to swallow it back. Her job was not done.

Nostrils flared as she took in frigid air in rapid, speedy breaths, Squall tediously began the process of slicing each bulbous heap of sludge- all reminders of Hermaeus Mora's cruelty- and slowly applying more and more restoration magic, until pallid skin finally came into view.

It took a few moments for Squall to realize that her hands had gone cold. The once steady flow of restoration magic had dried up, leaving her surrounded by shreds of otherworldly carnage, shaking like a leaf.

Stirring like a prophet rising from dreams of catastrophe, Squall rose to her knees, mind possessed by a much more primal spirit than her usual self. She scanned her desolate surroundings, finding little besides dense conifers and icy boulders. Luckily, the divines had blessed her with a small stream, running only a little more than a hundred feet away from her. There was no way Squall would get herself to any sort of civilization at this point, even if she decided to abandon Miraak there. She would have to gather herself and make camp. Shambling towards the water, Squall nearly collapsed halfway through the trek, dry heaving as if her body was urging her to vomit. She could only spit up bile: how long had she gone without food? Squall vaguely remembered eating a sorts of breakfast, but no lunch: the Black Book had distracted her. She shook her head. _Just how long was I in Apocrypha? _

Tears began to well up in Squall's eyes as she trudged the rest of the way to the water. There was something so sickeningly laughable about the whole situation: one Dragonborn knocked out, robes still slick with blood that only recently stopped flowing. The other, crouched over a creek, gagging on her own tears. The First and the Last, humbled in their own misery.

Squall tried not to think too much about that.

She slowly began shedding herself of her weapons and armor. Squall had packed light for Apocrypha, expecting an easy return back to the Skaal village. The only weapons she had brought were her warhammer, its head now rusted with blood and inky goo, and her ebony dagger, which still sat next to Miraak's body. She quietly peeled off the hefty ebony armor she had journeyed into the Daedric realm armor was badly damaged: spattered with blood and dented in a few places. Squall shivered in the simple tunic and breeches, only adorned now with the amulet of Kynareth (or Khenarthi, as Squall had always known her as) she often wore under her armor. Her clothes were soaked through with sweat, now only just drying from the dampness of Apocrypha. She had fortunately packed a thick cloak, which she now slung over her shoulders, rejoicing in the warmth it brought her.

The water was icy to the touch, but Squall still sunk her hands in, scrubbing away all the blood and dirt until she could finally see the small spots that dotted her fingers, growing larger as they trailed up her arm, kissing her chest and back, creating constellations of her very own. When she was younger, Squall would trace the distances between her spots with her forefinger, making up stories for each pattern she could make out on her own body. It was like a game: here is the Spriggan, the Senche, the dragon. All beings of her very own, imprinted onto her by the Divines.

Despite the cold, Squall cupped some river water in her hands and splashed it onto her face. Her mind was wandering, deluded by the fragile state she had put herself in. She had brought along a few potions and a hunk of bread, all settled in a simple bundle she kept strapped to her armor. Crawling back to where it lay, Squall dug for one of the healing tonics she had bought in Raven Rock, uncorking the potion with a swift tug. She had to stop herself from draining the entire thing in one gulp like how one would chug a bottle of mead- instead opting to take shallow sips, just in case her stomach refused to agree with the foreign substance. Her body hummed with delight, her chest rumbling as the gashes she sustained began to close up, scars forming then disappearing in a heartbeat.

As she drank, she glanced at the body she had so haphazardly abandoned for the waters. Miraak still seemed unconscious. Squall hoped that her healing was enough to keep the man from leaving Nirn forever.

_But why save him at all? _A part of her thought. Squall looked down at her drink. For that question, she had no answer. Squall had never considered herself to be the kind of fool who tried to swindle the universe out of making sacrifices. She knew that acts of heroism often called for hard choices: whether she could make them or not was up for another debate. However, she could at least realize that such acts were necessary.

Still, Squall was not cruel. When the Blades told her she must kill Paarthurnax, she laughed in their faces. She knew the difference between the will of the gods and the wrath of man, at least to an extent.

Her gaze steadied on Miraak, a familiar chant beginning to reverberate in the back of her mind: 'Here is his shrine... That they have forgotten... Here do we toil... That we might remember…' she shook it away, but the chill it gave her still remained. _Is he worth saving? _The thought was unavoidable. It seeped into the crevices of her skull, weighing her down more than any chestplate or shield ever could.

_Is he worth saving? _No, probably not. Her saving Miraak was a smear on all the good promises she had made: to the people of Solstheim, to her own rules of conduct as a Dragonborn, even to the Daedric prince of knowledge himself. It was an impulsive act on her part, one born from the part of her heart that still twisted when she stabbed, that wept at every killing Squall bore witness to.

_Was it right, to save a monster? _Squall stirred from her spot, placing the now empty bottle back into her satchel. She began to gather her armor and walk back towards Miraak's body.

No, it wasn't right. However- _It's not like I haven't made the wrong choice before, _Squall thought. She wasn't exactly a perfect Dragonborn.

Miraak hadn't stirred since the pair had been teleported to these wilds. Squall cleared away debris from a patch of land in front of the body, then searched for wood and kindling for the fire. She might as well make camp: although, she doubted that she would get any sleep, despite her aching body begging to differ. Lighting the twigs and dried leaves with a swift bolt of flame delivered from her hand, Squall forced herself to relax and sit down in front of the fire, letting its warmth sink deep into her fur, wrapping around her better than any blanket and cloak ever could. She dug around in her knapsack for the loaf of bread she had packed, tugging off a sizable chunk. Nibbling on the softest innards of the roll, she stared into the flames, letting the mundanity of their movement lull her into a state of rest. She glanced anxiously at the body in front of her, which still refused to stir. Was there more she could do? She couldn't administer any healing potions while he was still knocked out, and her restoration magic could only go so far in healing the wound. She tiptoed closer to Miraak, finally draping her own fur cloak over the body. Peering into the slits of his garish gold mask, Squall tried to discern any sign of life, but the only thing she could see was a chilling darkness.

Growing impatient, Squall reached out and grazed the hard metal surface with her fingers, catching one of her fingers on the underside of one of its sculpted pincers. She began to lift the mask up slowly, then drew a harsh breath, dropping her hand, the touch still lingering like embers to a flame.

Miraak shifted ever-so-slightly.

Squall's ears fell flat against her hair as her senses quickened. A hiss began stirring in her throat.

Miraak stirred slowly, in what felt like ages to Squall, frozen in her crouched position over the First Dragonborn.

"Where-" Miraak took in his surroundings. "Skyrim?"

"Not quite," Squall whispered. She could feel his gaze stiffen as he acknowledged her.

"You-" Miraak paused, one hand quickly grasping his stomach, fingers grazing the fresh skin. For a few seconds, the pair were silent, with only the faint rustling of the Solstheim wilds providing symphony to their staredown.

"You have made a grave mistake, _Dovahkiin," _Miraak finally rasped.


	3. Chapter 3

You have made a grave mistake, Dovahkiin. The quiet air hung over the pair like a shroud, the hush of Solstheim making the entire forest feel both too vast and too cramped at the same time. Squall felt a chill crawl up her back. She shuddered under her cloak, wrapping the furs closer to her, eyes cast down to avert Miraak's piercing gaze.

"I know that," she shifted uncomfortably, causing the leaves she knelt upon to crackle like the sky before an upcoming storm. Despite her many moons on Nirn, spent both valiantly and sheepishly, Squall now wore the expression of a child just caught stealing from a brother.

Not that she couldn't justify her actions: just not to him, he who, as far as Squall could tell had no reverence for the unnecessarily heroic, the stupid yet noble. What could she say? 'It was the right thing to do?' As if that could make any semblance of sense to a tyrant. Right thing to do. Was it even?

Miraak tried to rise to his feet, but stumbled, hand still grasped around his middle. Squall inched away. The look under the man's golden mask was one that Squall had seen before, in sabre cats forced into too small cages and in bears she had shot down but not yet delivered a killing blow to.

Miraak fell with a sickening groan. His voice was less frightening outside of Hermaeus Mora's realm. It no longer echoed and reverberated in Squall's ears. It was quieter, even- if she could dare to say it- more human.

"I thought the restoration magic worked," Squall whispered as she stared into the flames.

"Hermaeus Mora," Miraak tried to stand again, this time barely even lifting his chest before collapsing again into a huddled pile of dark robes. "He's coming to kill me."

Squall's blood froze. "No- no he's not," she stammered. She glanced into the depths of the woodland. "He let me go."

"Let you go?" Miraak's voice dropped to a low, hushed tone. "Impossible."

Squall shuddered and coughed, the dry air stinging her throat. "We're here now. I don't know what to tell you."

"He's planning something."

Squall drew a harsh breath. "That's a problem for another day," she rasped. She didn't want to admit that her muscles ached and her brain grew foggy from weariness. She was still shaking.

"You foolishness does not surprise me, Dovahkiin," Miraak growled. Once again, he tried to rise in vain, movements quick and frantic. "I have to get out of here."

Squall paused for a moment, then dug into the makeshift knapsack she had strapped to her waist, pulling out another healing tonic.

"Here."

Miraak looked up at her. "What is this?"

"Health potion." Hesitantly, Miraak reached out and took it.

He inspected the bottle. "This would be a fantastic way to poison me."

Squall snorted. "Please. I'm not that clever."

A hint of a chuckle could be heard from Miraak's mask as he uncorked the bottle. Suddenly, he froze. "I, uh-"

"Right. The mask."

"Look away."

"So you can what, stab me in the back?"

Miraak frowned. "I would not be so dishonorable to pull such a cowardly move."

"I doubt that," Still, Squall averted her gaze, fidgeting with a stray thread on her tunic.

Her ears perked up as she heard the hard thump of metal against dirt, along with a harsh gasp. Squall shuddered as she remembered the howl of a dragon's soul being ripped from its body during her fight with Miraak, the lightning that scorched her flesh, the sickening crack that rung through her ears as she was slammed against an archway.

What was she doing? In a swift moment of blunt thoughtlessness, Squall looked up.

She bit down on her tongue to stifle a scream.

His face was unearthly. He was young (or certainly appeared to be younger than a few thousand years), but frighteningly pale, like a ghost. It was all sharp angles and shadows, framed by a mess of dark hair and stubble, spread thin on his jawline. His left eye was a deep, rich brown: his right, a flickering ensemble of several shades of green. Squall may consider it beautiful, if it wasn't framed by a dark blotch, as black as night, that spiraled out across his face, making its way down his neck as thin veiny webbing. Like lightning had struck and left its remnants to grow, like roots of the tallest oak.

Miraak caught her gaze and froze. Squall immediately glanced away, cheeks burning.

"Sorry," she mumbled.

Miraak said nothing, letting the deafening silence eat her up as he drank the potion. Finally, after minutes of only listening to the wind whisper through the now darkening sky, Squall heard him rise. She looked back, noting that Miraak had put his mask back on.

"It's getting dark," she noted as she stood up and lazily started stamping out the fire she had made. "We need to get off this island." Squall was dangerously exhausted, her head spinning and vision blurring with every movement, but she had to keep moving. Miraak's words about Hermaeus Mora hunting the pair of them down had stuck in her mind, flooding her thoughts with gruesome images and horrific flashbacks.

"We?" Miraak crossed his arms.

Squall bit back a hiss. "Like I would dare to leave you to ravage this land."

"Like you could stop me."

Squall frowned. The thought had occurred to her once or twice that Miraak was still dangerous, immensely powerful and now, thanks to Squall, unfettered from his prison.

"I suppose I could not," she replied. "But I doubt you could find your way out of this forest."

"Are you going to guide me?" Miraak scoffed.

"Please," Squall rolled her eyes. "I'm a foreigner to these parts as well."

She began collecting her things, shrugging on her armor and heaving her warhammer onto her back.

"However," she said. "I would rather make sure you're not brainwashing the locals."

"Then why free me in the first place?"

Squall's ears flattened. "Perhaps I have a merciful spirit."

"Mercy is not the way of the dov."

"Then you are rather lucky that I am not the 'true Dragonborn'."

There was a long pause.

"I was never naive enough to truly think that," Miraak said. He began slowly walking into the depths of the woodland.

"Your cultists, on the other hand-" Squall reluctantly followed him, straying a few yards behind.

"I told my cultists what they wanted to hear."

"You lied to them."

"It's unfortunate you have such an honorable spirit. I almost thought you wished to split the glory of ruling Solstheim."

"I have enough glory of my own already," Squall glared at the First Dragonborn.

"Yet hardly enough sense."

"You're going the wrong way."

Miraak turned around.

"You're looking for a boat back to Skyrim, right? Raven Rock is to the west. Right now, we're going north," Squall pointed towards the sky. "See that cluster of stars, the ones that seem to form an archer? We have to follow that." She began trudging in that general direction, steps determined yet weak and burdened down with exhaustion and her warhammer, ears pointed forward yet head still turned, one eye peering at Miraak.

"Looks more like a horse to me," he grumbled, beginning to trek in her direction.

They walked in silence. Squall was thoroughly unbothered by this fact: her limbs ached enough as it was, all squabbling aside. She tried her best to not look back: instead keeping herself focused on the wilderness that encompassed them both: wholly untouched by man or mer alike, the fresh air wound around her, giving newfound energy to every breath she took. The frosty leaf litter that had strewn itself on the ground made a hearty crunch in response to her footsteps, a sound that mingled well with the chattering of the birds and mournful cry of the wolves. The darkness of night now fully enveloped her, a shroud that she welcomed with open arms. Her night vision had given the entire world a slightly bluish tint, like she was looking through a fragment of shattered glass. The dark also gave her an upper hand: Miraak only had the slight brush of moonlight and the small storm of flames he had conjured in his palm to guide him.

"I used to study constellations as well," a soft voice shattered the silence. Squall almost turned around. "But I couldn't find much use for them."

She said nothing.

"It's easy to forget their names and faces," he said. "Especially after-" His voice trailed off.

"Right," she whispered. She found herself shutting her eyes, for just a second, to hide the world away: like she was a kitten again, who believed that she could force reality to pause between each blink.

There's probably a Shout for that. Squall shook her head.

They marched on.

"You would have done the same," Miraak finally said.

Squall stopped. "What?"

"If our roles had been reversed. If you were there trapped. You would have done the same."

"Perhaps," Squall sighed. She drew a deep breath. "If our roles had been reversed. However," her voice wavered, each syllable stinging her throat. She could feel her knees buckling, her armor digging into overburdened and weary flesh. Just a few more steps. "Would you?"

"Done what?" Miraak replied. "Save you? Probably not."

A shadow of his voice rang through Squall's ears. Mercy is not the way of the dov.

"That's unfortunate," she croaked, and then promptly fainted.


End file.
